


5 Times Peter and Stiles Slept Together, and One Time They Didn't

by twothumbsandnostakeincanon (somanyofthekids)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Adult Stiles Stilinski, Concussions, Discussion Of Murder, Food, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Sharing a Bed, Steter Secret Santa 2020, Stiles + the Hales AU, Vomit Mention, Werewolf Conferences & Conventions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28218612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyofthekids/pseuds/twothumbsandnostakeincanon
Summary: They couldn't remember the first time, and the second time hadn't been their choice. The third time was Peter's, the fourth was Stiles', and by the fifth-Well, the fifth is why the sixth didn't happen.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 67
Kudos: 864
Collections: Veryace's favorite fics





	5 Times Peter and Stiles Slept Together, and One Time They Didn't

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EverFascinated](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverFascinated/gifts).



> Happy Secret Santa, EverFascinated!! I adore your fics, so I hope you enjoy this!

Stiles couldn’t really remember the first time. 

What he  _ did _ remember was washing off the ogre guts in the motel shower, pulling on a pair of boxers, and falling face first into the bed. After that, he remembered being woken up by a pounding on the door as Cora yelled that they had to leave immediately or risk getting discovered by the local pack, and he remembered the groan of Peter next to him. 

They both silently rolled out of bed and quickly gathered their things, getting out the door as fast as possible, and that was it. 

That was all Stiles remembered about the first time he slept with Peter. 

* * *

The second time wouldn’t have happened if nature hadn’t intervened. Twice. 

“I’m so sorry,” the witch apologized again, cleaning water off her glasses as they entered her kitchen. “I swear the weather report said it wasn’t going to rain. I guess we’ll have to wait for the morning now. Do you need to call your Alpha? I don’t want to concern your pack,” she finished, popping her glasses back on with a worried look. 

“We’re more or less free agents,” Stiles said with a shrug, pulling out his phone. “I’ll text Derek and Cora to let them know, though.” Less than a second later he got back  **_k_ ** and  **_tell peter i’m selling his stuff on craigslist_ ** **,** respectively. 

“I have an extra bed, if you’d like to get some rest?” the witch ventured. “Or you can share with William,” she said with a little laugh. 

Peter and Stiles glanced at each other warily. 

“Who’s William?” Peter asked cautiously.

A quiet s _ nckt-snckt-snckt-snckt _ interrupted the answer, and everyone turned toward the sound. 

“That’s William,” the witch finally answered, gesturing toward the three foot tall horse. 

Peter and Stiles stared at the horse for a moment

“Why is he wearing sneakers?” Peter asked eventually, tone hinting that he was more thrown by this than he would ever admit.

“He slides around on the tile otherwise,” she answered, as if that should be obvious. 

“Where does he sleep?” Stiles asked, eyes glued to the miniature horse that was now nosing the cupboards.

“He has a mattress in the back mudroom, actually,” the witch said. “It gets too cold out at night this time of year.” 

Stiles looked speculatively at the tiny horse.

“You’re not seriously considering sleeping on the horse bed with the horse,” Peter said in disbelief. “You can’t possibly find me  _ that _ repulsive.” 

Stiles gestured enthusiastically at the miniature horse.

“He’s wearing  _ sneakers _ , Peter. When am I ever going to have a chance like this again?”

Peter paused, readjusting his previous assumptions. 

“You…  _ want _ to sleep with the horse?”

“ _ Miniature _ horse.  _ Miniature  _ horse that  _ wears sneakers,” _ Stiles emphasized. “This is the first time I’ve ever even met one, and now I can either sleep in a person-bed like I do every other night of my life, or sleep on the  _ horse bed  _ with the _ miniature horse!” _

Peter shrugged. 

“Well, more space for me I suppo-”

“AH-CHOO!”

Peter looked back at Stiles in time to see him gear up for a second snee-

“AH-CHOO!!”

-ze, and then a third immediately af-

“AH-CHOO!!!!”

-ter. 

They stared at each other for a moment.

“I might be a little allergic to horses,” Stiles allowed, rubbing at his suddenly red eyes. 

Peter sighed. 

“So much for getting the bed to myself. Go wash your face, Dander Danger, I don’t want to listen to you sneeze all night.” 

Stiles wasn’t listening, though. He was looking with longing at the adorable little horse. He sniffled. 

“Maybe it would still be okay?” he said, voice nasal but hopeful. 

“Don’t make me save you from yourself, darling, I’m hardly the rescuing type,” Peter drawled. 

Stiles scoffed- or tried to, before choking on another sneeze. 

“Can I get you some Benadryl?” the witch asked hesitantly. 

“I have some,” Stiles assured her, and then sighed in defeat. “But I should probably get into bed before I take it. It knocks me out pretty hard.” He gave one last loving look to the tiny horse, and then followed the witch.

She showed them back to the spare room, pointing out the spare blankets for the queen sized mattress before leaving them to it. The rain was a little louder back there. 

Stiles and Peter briefly side-eyed each other before shrugging and shucking off their pants. Peter slid in the side nearest to the window, and Stiles climbed over him into the side closest to the door. The sneezes were intermittent now, but the snuffles appeared to be staying. 

“God, you’re probably going to snore all night, aren’t you?” Peter said, flopping onto his pillow with a sigh. 

“Yep,” Stiles said with a lip pop. “At least until the Benadryl does its job.” With that, he closed a fist and reopened it, manifesting a small pink pill that he dry swallowed. “Don’t bother kicking me either, because I absolutely will not wake up for at least six hours after this.” He rearranged his pillow a bit, and then slumped down into the fluff, tucking both hands beneath his head. 

Sure enough, about fifteen minutes later, Stiles was gently snoring through congested airways as he slept. 

Peter opened his eyes to look at him, and considered kicking him anyway. But, in the end, instead he closed his eyes again and just listened.

Peter fell asleep to the sound of breathing keeping time with the rain.

* * *

The third time was the first time Peter actually chose it, although Stiles felt that his decision-making capabilities were less than optimal and didn’t think it counted. 

“He has a concussion.” 

Stiles stopped looking around Peter’s apartment and stared Cora in the face blankly. 

“He’s a werewolf though.” 

“Ye-e-es,” Cora said, drawing the word out, “he’s a  _ concussed _ werewolf.” 

“How do you even know? Don’t you have to do, like, an MRI for that?”

Cora rolled her eyes. 

“He’s sensitive to light, he threw up, and he took a fucking spruce tree to the head-”

“That was such a waste of a perfectly good Christmas tree.”

“-so I think it’s safe to assume he has a concussion, Stiles. Not even werewolves heal from that immediately.” 

Stiles shrugged and nodded, deferring to her clearly superior knowledge of tree-head injuries. 

“Anyway, normally I’d take him to the Alpha, but we don’t really have one, and someone needs to stay with him-”

Cora was once again interrupted, this time by the groaning blanket lump on the couch. One hand stuck out from underneath and splayed fingers in their general direction. 

“I think he’s trying to communicate,” Stiles said pensively. 

“What?” asked Cora as she turned toward the mass of covers. “Are you gonna barf again? Do it on your carpet, I don’t want to have to sit on a puke couch when I come over.”

The fingers made their first cohesive movement in the form of an extended middle finger, and then a second when they pointed at Stiles. 

“What? No! Don’t barf on me!” Stiles protested, alarmed. 

Peter’s face finally poked out from under the blanket, eyes squinting a glare against the dim light of the lamp. 

“I can’t believe you’d let me puke on my carpet,” he mumbled grumpily toward Cora. “I want Stiles to stay with me.” And then tucked his face back under the blanket. 

“Fine with me,” Cora said, turning to leave. 

“Wait!” Stiles cried, panicked. “I don’t know anything about werewolf healthcare! All I can do is manifest Benadryl and Tylenol! What if he gets Werewolf Concussion Syndrome?” 

“That’s not a thing.” 

“See? I didn’t even know that!” 

“Oh my God Stiles, just keep him company and get him water if he needs it, ok?” 

Cora raised an eyebrow, waiting for his agreement. Reluctantly, Stiles nodded. 

“Yeah alright. Keep your phone on in case I need you.” 

She raised her fingers in acknowledgment and farewell, and left. 

Stiles looked around the room, feeling a little lost. 

“If I accidentally kill you, make sure you haunt her and not me,” he said to the lump. A grunt was the only response. 

Stiles crouched down next to him with a sigh. 

“Come on, let’s get you into bed.” 

There was a purposeful silence from the Peter blanket lump. 

“Haha,” Stiles said sarcastically, “that’s not what I meant and you know it. Let’s go, concussed boys have to sleep in beds. It’s the law.” 

Another expressive silence. 

“You think you know the law better than me?” Stiles answered, indignant. “Me, the son of the sheriff? Peter, I have been categorically breaking the law since I was six, no one knows the books better than me. It’s illegal for you to sleep on the couch. Get up.” 

Peter and his blanket mountain remained still. Stiles tapped a finger on his lips, mentally rifling through his exploitable tactics.

“If you move to the bed then I’ll tell you about the first law I ever broke.” 

There was an interested silence from the blanket lump. Stiles smirked. 

“It’s a good one, none of that misdemeanor shit.” 

Finally, the mass of blankets began to move. Half closed eyes could be seen through a tiny split in the covers as Peter shuffled his way upright. It took some maneuvering and more than a few growls, and even more than a few  _ shut-ups _ , but they made it to Peter’s bed. 

Peter immediately burrowed back under a pile of blankets, this time with extra pillows. Stiles carefully climbed onto the opposite side of the bed, unwilling to disturb Peter’s soft, dark pillow cave, but equally as unwilling to sleep in a chair. 

“Okay,” he said, stretching his legs as he thought. “My first broken law.” He deliberately kept his voice low and smooth, partly out of concern for Peter’s head and partly because he hoped Peter would fall asleep and he wouldn’t have to finish the story.

“When I was six, I asked for a machete for Christmas-“ Stiles started, and then immediately stopped when Peter poked his nose out.

“Did you commit your first murder at  _ six?” _ he croaked out, voice hoarse and muffled but unmistakably delighted. 

“Don’t ruin the tension of my story, bruise boy. Now, as I was saying, I asked for a machete. I wanted an eighteen inch long one, just like Adventure Mike used on that one Animal Planet show. You know, the one where he constantly got bit by snakes? He got stung by a bunch of killer bees once too, it was great-”

“Didn’t someone die on that show?” Peter wondered out loud. “Did you kill an Animal Planet employee when you were six?”

“No, you’re thinking of that other survivalist show, where the guy got eaten by bears. Stop interrupting. Anyway, I wanted a machete just like his. I didn’t get a machete just like his. I didn’t get a machete at all.” 

“I thought there must have been a mistake. My mom then made the  _ actual _ mistake of encouraging that thought.  _ ‘Santa must have accidentally given your machete to the wrong kid,’ _ she said.”

“So then I thought ‘Of course! He’s got an entire planet’s worth of kids to deliver to! He just made a mistake!’ Naturally this led to me trying to discover what the flaw in the system is.  _ Simple _ , six year old me thought. He’s trying to do it all in one night. Rookie mistake. But then the more I thought about it, the more I realized that Santa couldn’t actually be doing it all in one night. I pretty wildly misunderstood what time zones are, but I thought they were probably to blame. Anyway, clearly Santa was not delivering presents to every child on one night of the year-“

“And that’s when you realized that you’d been lied to so you stole a machete and murdered the mall Santa?” Peter interjected hopefully. 

“No. That was when I realized that Santa must run the post office.” 

“That’s not a felony.”

“I’m  _ getting _ to the felony, Jesus Christ.”

“Jesus Christ would love to commit felonies.”

“Of course he would, that’s why he’s the reason for the season or whatever. Back to my story. Santa clearly couldn’t deliver presents to everyone in one night, so he must have a bigger operation, right? That’s what six year old me thought. And who delivers packages to a ton of people all year long? The post office! My impeccable logic led me to believe that Santa, via the postal service, had simply delivered my machete to someone else on accident. Probably just got the house number wrong. Easy mistake to make. My machete was probably delivered to someone else on my street. So, I started checking the mailboxes of everyone on my street, and taking home every package I found. This went on for five weeks before anyone realized what I was doing. By the end I had three of the same pair of special ordered orthopedic shoes, a dildo that I thought was a caterpillar toy, and some electronics worth enough that technically I had committed grand theft.”

Peter finally fully removed his head from the pillows. 

“There wasn’t  _ any _ murder in that story,” he said reproachfully. 

“I didn’t promise you murder, I promised you a crime bigger than a misdemeanor. I gave you a Class E Felony.” 

“I’ve been scammed.” 

“Yep. You need anything? How’s your head?” Stiles reached over and gingerly probed Peter’s skull, watching carefully to see if he winced. 

“I’m fine,” he said, batting Stiles’ hand away after a moment. “You can go home, I don’t actually need to be babysat.” 

“I’m not babysitting you. That’s something you’ll have to find on FetLife.” Peter gave him a dry look but Stiles continued. “I’m just here taking care of my packmate.” 

Peter snorted derisively, snitty remark on the tip of his tongue-

“ _ My _ packmate,” Stiles emphasized, firmly cutting him off before he could say anything. “I always take care of what’s mine, Peter.”

Peter went quiet for a moment. 

“Possessive bastard,” he grumbled eventually, sliding back into his cave. 

Instead of letting Peter disappear, Stiles annoyed him until he drank a glass of water, and then fussed with the pillows until he was sure Peter wouldn’t smother himself in his sleep. 

Peter had nearly completely drifted off by the time Stiles fully laid down next to him. Just like at the witch’s house, he tucked his hands under his head and closed his eyes. 

Peter thought it looked a lot cuter when he wasn’t swollen and splotchy from horse hair. 

* * *

The fourth time, Stiles was the one who chose it, because like hell was he going to pay for a hotel room by himself. Especially after how much the conference tickets cost.

“God I’m hungry. Hey, if I order room service will you pay for it?” 

“Absolutely not. Starve.” 

Stiles let out an offended sound. 

“What kind of werewolf are you? Aren’t you supposed to like, want to provide for your pack or whatever?” he asked. 

“You would know better if you’d attended the Pack Dynamics seminar with me today.”

Stiles flung himself back on his bed and groaned, hand just barely missing the ironing board where Peter was pressing his shirt between their beds.

“God, I really should have. The ‘Wards With Confidence’ thing fucking sucked. The guy running the show knew less than I did, and an emissary from Michigan peeled and ate an entire boiled egg right next to me. Oh, and that blond Alpha! What was he even doing there?” 

The iron in Peter’s hand stilled for a moment. 

“An Alpha? In a magic seminar?” 

“Yeah! Like obviously he can attend whatever classes he wants, but like, he definitely wasn’t paying attention. He just sat behind me and made weird noises.”

“... Sniffing noises?”

“Yeah! What the fuck!”

“He wants to seduce you.” Peter clicked the iron off and started unbuttoning his current shirt. 

“Excuse you?  _ Seduce _ me?” Stiles asked, incredulous. 

“Seduce you,” Peter confirmed. “He likely has no emissary or magic user in his pack, so he went to the meeting and sniffed out the strongest one in the room, which must have been you.” 

“Oh, so you mean like, business seducing,” Stiles said, relieved, watching as Peter reached the bottom of his buttons. 

“No, I mean seducing-seducing. Possibly, anyway. It’s not as common now, but it used to be that if a pack wanted to court a powerful new member, the Alpha was expected to  _ court _ them. With gifts and wooing.” Peter shrugged off his shirt, watching back as Stiles stared at him. “Are you objectifying me again, or are you that surprised at the idea of courting pack members?” Peter asked as he began buttoning the still warm, freshly pressed shirt. 

“I can multitask,” Stiles answered immediately, finally looking back up at his face. “I don’t want to be courted! What do I do?” 

“Avoid him. We’re only here until tomorrow morning, it shouldn’t be difficult. Try to stay out of his line of sight, because if he manages to get as far as formally approaching you, then it becomes a whole process to avoid offending him, since you’re not part of an official pack. It insinuates that being with that particular Alpha is worse than having no Alpha at all. Quite the insult.” 

Stiles hummed pensively for a moment before coming to a conclusion. 

“That’s dumb as hell.” 

Peter raised an eyebrow as he tucked in his shirt. 

“You wouldn’t prefer to have a stronger pack with an Alpha?” 

“I’m not gonna abandon people I actually like for a pack full of strangers,” Stiles scoffed. “If I was so horny to have an Alpha, then I’d just find some way to make you one.” 

Peter paused in putting on his jacket, processing that. 

“Then why haven’t you?” he asked. 

“Because you don’t want to be an Alpha. Cora doesn’t either, and Derek sure as hell doesn’t want it. We’re fine the way we are.” 

“What makes you think I don’t want to be an Alpha?” Peter asked curiously. 

“You would have killed Deucalion by now if you did,” Stiles said. “Or someone else. There are dozens of ways you could have become an Alpha since your birthday remix, and you haven’t done any of them. Ergo, you don’t want it.”

Peter snorted and finished putting on his jacket. 

“I’ve never known someone to take so opaque a path to such perfect clarity as you. Is that what you’re wearing to dinner?”

“Yep. I look great, right?” Stiles answered easily, shirt rucked up and wrinkled on one side as he lay sprawled on the bed. 

“You do,” Peter said honestly, earning a slight blush from Stiles. “Shall we?” 

“We shall,” Stiles said as regally as he could while horizontal, and extended his hand for a lift up. Peter hauled him up off the bed with much more momentum than necessary, delighted when Stiles stumbled right into Peter’s chest. He was slightly less delighted when Stiles sent a spark zap at him for it. 

The weekend evening led to the restaurants being fairly busy, and they ended up with a wait time. 

“Do I want fish?” Stiles wondered out loud as they stood to the side in the lobby. 

“I’m ordering a red for the table, so if you want fish you should go with a fatty one. Salmon maybe, or trout,” Peter said as he idly looked around at the other diners. 

“ _ ‘Ordering a red for the table,’ _ ” Stiles repeated, teasing. “Peter we’re literally going to be the only ones at the table, just say you’ll share your wine with me.”

“If someone else joins us, they can have the wine too,” Peter protested. 

Stiles rolled his eyes. 

“Who would join us?” Stiles scoffed. 

“Just because this isn’t a conference sponsored dinner doesn’t mean we won’t see anyone from the conference,” Peter said. “Like the egg emissary from Michigan, or-” He cut himself off, going suddenly silent. 

“Or the blond Alpha, yeah I know, I’ll keep a low profile,” Stiles finished for him, rolling his eyes. 

“Stiles,” Peter said quietly, staring over Stiles’ shoulder at the walk right outside the restaurant. 

“What? What are you looking- oh god, please say sike,” Stiles begged, realizing exactly who Peter must be seeing. “Say sike right now.” 

“I don’t think he’s seen you yet, but he’s sniffing,” Peter confirmed, lowering his voice. 

“My life is a lubed slip-n-slide straight to hell,” Stiles whispered fervently, rubbing his face.

“Get behind there,” Peter hissed, gesturing at the empty greeter’s lectern. 

“It’s like four feet tall!” Stiles hissed back. 

“Crouch! Hurry, he’s coming in!” 

Stiles dashed behind the freestanding desk, bending his knees and ducking his head, and Peter moved to stand in front of it. Sure enough, a beat later the blond Alpha entered the restaurant and began to sniff again, albeit more subtly. Peter watched as he caught the scent and started heading toward the lectern where he stood. 

“Hello,” he said loudly, catching his attention. “Didn’t I see you in the Hilton conference center earlier today?”

The Alpha drew up a little short, clearly having been very intent on the scent. 

“Uh,” he said, giving Peter a once over. “Yeah, I was there. I don’t think we’ve been introduced though?”

“Allow me to remedy that; my name is Peter.”

“Josh,” the blonde said, nodding once before looking around again. 

“Are you meeting someone here?” Peter asked.

“I was hoping to. I need an emissary, and I found an unattached spark earlier today. I’m going to take him home with me. Once I track him down, anyway.”

Peter saw a nearly imperceptible tilt of the Alpha’s head toward the lectern.

“Unattached spark? I think I know who you’re talking about. About this tall? Hates the smell of eggs? Yes, I know him. He’s quite a powerful spark, so I’m  _ sure,” _ he moved the heel of his shoe back to slightly kick the lectern, “he’ll be employing masking and misdirection spells.”

“Playing Hard-to-Get,” Josh said, voice filled with the wisdom of the idiot. “Trying to make himself seem like he’s in high demand.”

Peter watched Josh’s confident face and hummed in response, hoping to distract him from the slowly fading heartbeat behind the lectern.

“You’d be surprised at just how many people feel entitled to power like his.”

Josh hummed thoughtfully back and then nodded firmly to himself. 

“That’s why he needs an alpha like me.” 

Peter stared at him. 

“Right.” He noticed Stiles’ scent beginning to fade as well now. “Do you smell that? He must have put his scent in here as misdirection. Have you checked down Wharf Street? There are a lot of restaurants there.” 

“No, I’m not familiar with this city. Don’t come to California much at all, actually. I hate it here.” 

“Interesting,” Peter said. “Well, if you look out the glass door, you can see Wharf Street.” He pointed and took a step forward, making Josh turn his back on the lectern and look. “If you go down there a block and a half-” he heard nearly silent footsteps move behind him and then a slight rustling from the huge fern to his right, “-there’s a string of restaurants you can check. But how do you plan to court him?”

“I’ll just say it,” Josh answered as if the answer was obvious. 

“Interesting,” Peter repeated. “You may want to try a bit of charm though.” He moved over to the left wall, forcing Josh to turn again, this time with his back to the fern. Peter pointed to a hanging painting. “Maybe a stop by a shop for a gift of art first?”

Josh scoffed. 

“I don’t need that. He’s not formally attached to anyone, and clearly he needs a pack like mine-” 

Peter kept his focus on Josh as he saw Stiles dart behind a big group of people exiting the restaurant together, ducking his head as he walked toward the door with them. Peter kept eye contact as he completed the circle and moved back to lean against the lectern, once more requiring Josh to turn toward him with his back to the door. 

“-he’ll be begging to come home with me.”

_ “Interesting,” _ Peter repeated a final time. He saw Stiles move with the group until they were around the corner and out of sight. “Well, don’t let me keep you. Good luck!”

The Alpha nodded in farewell, demeanor still utterly convinced of his future success, and walked out the door, straight across the street. After a moment, Peter followed him out the door and turned in the same direction as the group from earlier. 

He only had to go a few steps before he heard, “Psst!! Is he gone?”

Peter peered down an alley, and watched Stiles step out from behind a dumpster. 

“If he wasn’t, that hardly would have been a stealthy way to find out,” Peter pointed out. 

“Shut up.”

“I just saved your ass,” Peter protested. 

“Saved me  _ from _ an ass,” Stiles corrected. They both turned to look for the Alpha. 

“You know, maybe I will pay for room service,” Peter said slowly as they watched him enter another restaurant in the distance. 

“Oh god, please. I’m  _ starving.” _

They went back to their room and perused the menu. Stiles found out they served breakfast at any time of day and ordered eggs benedict. Peter ordered a steak (and his bottle of wine).

“The table is too tiny to eat on,” Peter said with a frown. 

“Bed food,” Stiles said, mouth already full of toast and ham.

“What an argument you make.”

Stiles hastily swallowed, preparing another bite.

“It’s not supposed to be an argument, it’s a solution. Table too small. Bed real big. Problem solved.” 

“Your vocabulary deteriorates spectacularly around meals, you know?” Peter said as he carefully carried over his dinner. 

“Let me try your steak,” Stiles said, already moving his fork toward Peter’s plate before he’d even set it down. 

“What are you going to do with that fork? I haven’t cut it yet. Are you just going to pick up the whole steak and take a bite? What is your heist plan here, Stiles.” He slapped away the hand and got himself settled on his own bed. 

“I could absolutely heist your steak,” Stiles defended himself. He made another attempt at the steak, widely missing the plate and narrowly missing Peter’s hand. 

“Stiles-”

“Steak!” 

“Sti-”

“STEAK.”

Peter picked up his own fork and brandished it at Stiles threateningly. Stiles’ eyes narrowed. 

“To the death!” he declared, and then hesitated. “If we spill wine on the blankets, will we have to pay for new ones?”

“A cleaning fee at least,” Peter confirmed. 

Slowly, Stiles reluctantly lowered his fork. 

“I’ll let you live to see another day,” he said graciously, “but only because I don’t know how much it costs to get wine out of feather down.” 

“Thank you for your generosity,” Peter said with a roll of his eyes. 

Stiles settled back on his bed, and reached out to pick his plate back up- 

His plate that he immediately fumbled directly onto the bed. 

They both stared at the little pool of hollandaise. 

“Lubed up slip-n-slide,” Stiles whispered to himself. 

Later, after another meal had been ordered and eaten (at the tiny table), Peter got into bed while Stiles finished changing into his pajamas. As soon as Stiles emerged from the bathroom, he hesitated. 

“... I don’t want to sleep on the egg bed.” 

Peter sighed at the ceiling, turned off the light, and then silently lifted up the blankets on his bed. Stiles smiled and immediately slid in. 

“Oof, these are really only full sized huh,” Stiles said, scooting right up against Peter in order to fit on the bed. “Hey, turn on your side. We should spoon to maximize space.” 

“We should… maximize…” Peter muttered in disbelief. 

“I’m right and you know it. Look I’ll even let you decide. Do you want to be the big spoon or the little spoon?” 

Peter considered ignoring him. He considered kicking him back out of the bed. He considered kicking him out of the room. 

He turned on his side, facing Stiles, and waited for him to little-spoon. As soon as Stiles had his back facing him, Peter reached out an arm and wrapped it around Stiles’ stomach, pulling him back into his body. He hid a smile in the back of Stiles’ hair as he listened to his heartbeat pick up. 

“Shut up,” Stiles mumbled. 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“It was telepathically loud.” 

“You’re not a telepath.”

“How would you know?”

“Your poker face is terrible. I would definitely know if you’d heard some of the thoughts I have.” 

“Hate to break it to you, but I’ve already watched you murder like six people-”

“Not violent thoughts.”

“Wha- oh.”

Peter hid another smile. It went quiet, and Peter might have thought Stiles was falling asleep if it weren’t for the continued pitter patter of his heartbeat. He waited. 

“You mean about me, right?” Stiles finally blurted out. “That’s the implication? That you’re having horny thoughts about me?” 

“Yes, Stiles.”

“Oh. Okay.” There was another long silence. “I mean, it’s understandable, I am a perfect specimen of a spark-”

“Go to sleep, Stiles.” 

“I’m gonna, but only because I want to, not because you told me to.” 

“Goodnight, Stiles.” 

As Stiles fell asleep, this time only one hand remained tucked under his head. 

The other found Peter’s, and held onto it through the night. 

* * *

Everyone knew that Stiles paced and fidgeted and tapped when he was working through a problem. Like an anxiety powered anti-roomba. Instead of leaving a clean trail behind him, he left a trail of chaos. 

What was lesser known was that if the problem lasted long enough, and Stiles got tired enough, he took to perching on things. 

Peter had found him on top of tables, countertops, car hoods, desks- once on a bookshelf.

Currently he was perched on the back of the couch in Peter’s apartment. 

“If they’re pixies then why the fuck are they eating meat?? I can’t find anything anywhere about any species of pixie that eats meat! They’re consummate herbivores!” 

He leaned against the wall behind the couch, socked feet jammed into the back cushions, and rubbed his eyes. 

“Not just any meat,  _ human _ meat,” Peter huffed, just as frustrated and tired as Stiles. He collapsed onto the couch next to Stiles’ legs. 

“Yeah! What the fuck! If they’re actually pixies, can their digestive system even handle that?”

“I don’t think so, which means they must not actually be pixies.”

“But then  _ where-“  _

“- where did all the pixie dust come from, yes, I know, we’ve been in this circle already.” Peter sighed, closing his tired, burning eyes. “Maybe you’re right about their digestive system. Maybe they’ll all die of meat poisoning and the problem will resolve itself.” 

“When humans die of heart attacks, is that technically meat poisoning?” Stiles wondered out loud. 

“You need to sleep,” Peter answered without opening his eyes. 

_ “You _ need to sleep,” was Stiles’ witty rebuttal. 

“Stiles.”

“Ugh, fine.”

Without another word, Peter heard a  _ fwump, _ and looked up to see Stiles spread out along the top of the back of the couch, somewhat wedged in the wall. 

“I-“ Peter started, and then stopped. “Yeah, ok,” he said, giving in and laying down on the seat of the couch himself. He propped his head on the low armrest below Stiles’ own head, and within seconds they were both asleep. 

They stayed that way for six hours. 

Well, Stiles did anyway.

Peter woke up about an hour into it due to a hundred and sixty pounds of adult man falling on top of him. After a brief moment of panic, he realized that it was just Stiles who had rolled off the back of the couch and landed on top of him. Face smushed into Peter’s chest, Stiles clearly had not considered waking despite the fall. Peter wrapped an arm around him to keep him from falling again, and easily drifted back to sleep.

.

.

.

_ Scritch _

_ Scritch _

_ Scri- _

“Stop it.”

“But your beard is so soft.”

“I’m going to shave it off.”

“You’re not. You can’t shave anything, I’m trapping you.” 

Peter opened his sleepy eyes and found Stiles’ bright brown ones looking back at him. His chin dug slightly into Peter’s chest, and Peter could see his legs dangling off the other ends of the couch, past his own. 

“I’m very trapped,” Peter murmured, warm with the comfortable weight on top of him. Stiles moved his hand from Peter’s beard to his ear, tracing the shell there. 

“Did you know this is the fifth time we’ve slept together?” Stiles asked. 

“Aww, are you keeping track?” Peter teased. 

“Aww, are you letting me trap you?” Stiles teased back. 

The hand Peter had wrapped around Stiles slid up his back until it reached his hair. 

“I’m not trapped if I want to be here,” he said, lowering his voice to a murmur again. His hand moved to the side of Stiles face, and Stiles immediately leaned his cheek into Peter’s palm. 

“I kinda want to sleep with you more than five times,” Stiles admitted. Peter brushed his thumb across Stiles’ cheekbone. “Think I might want to do some other stuff with you too.”

“Oh really?” Peter said, voice sultry.

“Yeah,” Stiles answered, voice matter of fact. “Like horribly romantic picnics. And thoroughly romantic walks. And desperately romantic trips to Home Depot.”

“Okay,” Peter croaked out, much less suave than he had hoped for. “I might want those things too.” 

Stiles grinned. 

“You thought I just wanted to fuck, didn’t you?”

“The possibility had crossed my mind,” Peter admitted. 

Stiles turned his face fully into Peter’s palm, leaving a kiss there before turning back. 

“You said it yourself: I’m a possessive bastard. I want all of you, Peter.” He leaned up to leave a kiss on Peter’s lips next; a soft, lingering promise.

“You make it sound like you want me on a platter,” Peter teased. 

“Maybe I- oh my god they  _ ate the pixies first,” _ Stiles said with a gasp, shooting upright. “They’re  _ imps _ , and they  _ ate _ the pixies, and that’s where all the pixie dust came from, and that’s why they’re eating humans now.” 

The realization clicked with Peter a beat after Stiles, and they both tumbled off the couch a moment later, scrambling to get their shoes and the tools necessary to deal with the imps. A few short minutes later they reconvened at the door, ready to take care of the imp infestation, but Peter stopped Stiles before they could leave. 

“I’m taking you out tonight,” he said, face utterly serious. “Do  _ not _ get eaten by an imp before we get a chance at an actual date.” 

Stiles beamed back at him. 

“I won’t let them eat anything important.”

* * *

(Plus One)

“Peter. This sucks.” 

“I know darling.”

“I don’t think you do, Peter. I don’t think you understand the exact force of suck here. It’s like the vacuum of space. That’s how much this sucks. This sucks so hard that I’m being pulled into the void of the cosmos.”

“Hm. What does it smell like?” 

“Excuse me?”

“Astronauts say space smells metallic, but I think they’re lying. What do you smell?” 

“... Deer pee.” 

“Interesting.”

“It’s a metaphor, Peter.” 

“You said ‘like’ so technically it’s a simile.”

“I’m going to kill you.” 

“There’s the man I love,” Peter said into the phone with a smile. “It’s just one night in the woods, sweetheart. Babysit the Nemeton to make sure the new wards are working, and then you can come home in the morning.” 

Stiles groaned in complaint. 

“Darling,” Peter said with an amused smile, “why did you volunteer if you hate it so much?”

“‘Cause you’re gone,” Stiles said petulantly. “I thought it would be better than sitting at home and rewatching Lord of the Rings again.” 

“But you love Lord of the Rings.”

“Not when I can’t turn down the volume and tell you everything that gets said in the extended release commentary while I watch you slowly get more and more invested in Dominic Monaghan and Billy Boyd’s friendship.” 

“They were stuck up in those trees for  _ days, _ Stiles. They _ wrote a screenplay together.” _

“I know babe, it’s why I keep telling you about it. Anyway, obviously this is all your fault. If you’d just quit your job then you wouldn’t have to go anywhere without me and then I wouldn’t stupidly volunteer to babysit a tree all night.” 

Peter hummed into the phone as he continued walking to his destination. 

“Clearly I should be made to pay for my crimes. What do you suggest?”

“A punishment to fit the crime. Community service, in the form of making me coffee every morning.” 

“Is this community service, or Stiles Service?”

“Stiles is part of the community,” Stiles argued. 

Peter stepped around a fox burrow as he listened to Stiles’ impassioned argument about why bringing him snacks in bed counted as community service. He could see his goal in the distance now.

“And all this service you would be receiving would be to make up for your suffering tonight?” 

“Exactly.”

“So then I should be able to commute my sentence by reducing your suffering tonight,” he reasoned. 

“Nothing can soothe my suffering, Peter. I’m like William Wallace, Joan of Arc, Jes- hold on,” Stiles' voice suddenly went deadly serious. “There’s someone in the preserve.” 

“In this one, single case,” Peter said casually, “I would recommend that you ask questions first and shoot later.” 

Peter hung up the phone and stepped into the Nemeton’s clearing. Stiles had both hands raised, clearly ready to blast him into hell. 

“Hello, darling,” Peter said, amused. Stiles lowered his hands in shock, and then raised them again in delight. 

“You’re home early!! Oh my god, you scared the shit out of me. Wait, what do you mean  _ shoot later?” _ All of this was said while rushing over, and punctuated by jumping into Peter’s arms and kissing him soundly. 

“I wouldn’t want to permanently rule out you shooting me. What if I did something truly atrocious one day?” 

Stiles nodded solemnly. 

“Like watching Lord of the Rings without me.”

“Like watching Lord of the Rings without you,” Peter confirmed. He finally set Stiles down, but kept his arms around him. 

“So what did you have planned to keep you awake?” Peter asked curiously. 

“There’s coffee in that thermos over there,” Stiles indicated the direction with his head, “and I was going to practice my illusory magic on some bugs. Probably do some jumping jacks when I start getting sleepy.” 

Peter hummed thoughtfully and then reached into the backpack he’d brought and pulled out a blanket. 

“I can think of some other physical activity that might keep us awake.” 

Stiles grinned. 

Neither of them slept that night. 


End file.
